


A Dance of Words and Moonlight

by upperplanespatron



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route Spoilers, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Foiled Confessions, My Unit | Byleth Has Emotions, Out of Character My Unit | Byleth, Pining, Plans For The Future, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Set between Claude's A and S supports, no beta we die like Glenn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24831850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/upperplanespatron/pseuds/upperplanespatron
Summary: "Byleth turns another all-too-familiar corner. Her shoes – an old and well cared for pair of riding boots gifted to her by her father – make nary a sound against the cobblestone. She is silent as a ghost.And yet, he knows she is there.He always does."
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 19
Kudos: 122





	A Dance of Words and Moonlight

Moonlight steals across the deserted, half-rotten courtyards and labyrinthine halls of Garreg Mach. The last remnants of winter hang in the air like an illness. Still, new flowers and buds grow in-between cracked masonry and from dead garden beds, triumphantly and rebelliously promising the arrival of the now late spring. A thin frost threatens these first blooms and the pale darkness of night mutes their colors.

Yet, they persist.

The sconces that decorate the walls of the monastery are barren, as torches are no longer lit at night. The newborn forces that now inhabit this decrepit place play at power, like children pretending war. They are still vulnerable, and visibility is a dangerous thing for any attacking enemy to have.

So, after the sun sets, the place is given over to the darkness.

Byleth does not need the lights to move about even a ruinous Garreg Mach. She knows the twists and turns better than she might know a lover, each fallen pillar and empty hallway more familiar to her than her own face. Not that her familiarity is entirely necessary for navigation on this particular night, as the Lone Moon hangs full and pregnant in the sky. The light is so bright that she need not even squint against the darkness.

Byleth turns another all-too-familiar corner. Her shoes – an old and well cared for pair of riding boots gifted to her by her late father – make nary a sound against the cobblestone. She is silent as a ghost.

And yet, he knows she is there.

He always does.

Claude turns his face from the star-filled sky and towards the pale-eyed woman. He smiles a lovely and crooked smile, all dimples and genuine affection. A rare _true_ smile, Byleth notes. It reaches his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep either, huh?” His voice is teasing as always but full with a new softness that she has noticed only blossoms when they are alone together.

“Yes,” Byleth lies.

Claude’s eyes take a knowing sheen and he beckons her to his side with a thickly gloved hand. Byleth knows he can tell she is lying. She also knows that he does not care.

Every night is the same ritual: Byleth meets Claude in some abandoned part of the monastery and they steal a rare moment of companionship under the privacy of nightfall, strolling through darkened halls and avoiding guard patrols like guilty children hiding from their governess.

Yet, there is a new intimacy that punctures these moments. Something undeniable in the way he looks at her, in the way her face and belly warm on the rare occasions Claude calls her by her first name. But the shadow of war forces such fondness to prostrate itself upon the shrine of death and destruction, and so her words of confession and affection seem doomed to forever dance on the tip of her tongue. Byleth swallows them ever-deeper down.

Claude says something, his voice warm and mischievous and oh-so-sinful in the way it makes her breath catch in her lungs.

Byleth startles in a fashion nearly imperceptible upon the sound of his voice, though her reaction surprises even herself. Something has changed within the woman since merging with Sothis. She feels… _more_. More present, more _full_ , more herself _._ The world is clearer; she remembers more. She _feels_ more.

The sensation can be quite alarming, at times.

She turns to face him, choking back a sigh at the dream-like sight of his profile illuminated by the moon’s glow. Byleth cannot help but compare her own behavior to that of the dreamy-eyed schoolgirls she used to teach.

Has she ever acted so before, she wonders? Acted as a schoolgirl, rosy-faced and bubbly simply for the presence of another person?

Or is this new part of herself destined only for Claude?

Eventually, Byleth pulls herself from thought and acknowledges her companion. “Pardon?”

“I was just thinking…” Claude pauses, looking at her with a lop-sided smile and making her stomach go similarly lop-sided. “About us, I mean. If someone had told me six or seven years ago that one of my closest companions would be a previous teacher of mine, I’d have thought they were plotting something.”

“Says the king of schemes,” she retorts.

The man runs his hands through his hair and tilts his head towards Byleth. “Guilty as charged, Teach,” he quips.

The pair continue their midnight stroll, eventually finding themselves in the cadaverous remains of the monastery’s outdoor gardens. Byleth says something about the state of the garth being quite a shame and that she had liked the smell of the flowers that bloomed there this time last year. Claude stares vacantly ahead of himself and hums in response, obviously not paying much attention to the dead scraps of plant life surrounding him.

“Byleth?”

The woman’s eyes shoot from the dead bush in front of her to her companion’s shadow-kissed form faster than an arrow leaving a bow. Her stomach twists and warms, half concern and half delight. He usually saves her first name only for special occasions and particularly serious questions…

Her name in his mouth is equal parts indulgence and augury.

Byleth adores it.

“I was thinking.” A pause. “What are you going to do once this is all over?” He speaks softly, just above a whisper. The darkness eats the sound of his voice.

“If we win?”

“ _When_ we win.”

She slips into silent thought. A few sleepy seconds pass before she replies.

“What will you do, Claude?”

He smiles his wonderful smile again, his mouth parting just enough to reveal the muffled pink of his tongue as it darts across his lips. “Hey, don’t try to turn this around on me,” Claude chuckles breathily. “I asked you first.”

“My question is a valid one,” Byleth quips, her usual bluntness breaking through her uncharacteristically hazy bouts of blooming affection. “ _Should_ we survive… I suppose I will be wherever you are.”

“Wherever I am?” Claude repeats, mostly to himself. He sounds almost incredulous.

“I will be yours to use in the new world you build, if you’ll have me.”

As soon as the words leave her mouth Byleth clamps her lips shut and bites down on the inside of her cheek. She means what she says, of course. She will follow Claude off of a cliff if that’s where he leads her. But while Byleth is not particularly experienced in matters of romance neither is she a complete fool, and even she realizes that her Goddess-forsaken _phrasing_ implies much.

The man beside her breathes in a sharp, quick breath; the sound reminds Byleth of a dagger hurriedly drawn from a sheath. The soft echo of his steps stops, and Byleth turns to face a now unmoving Claude.

He stammers a response – uncharacteristic from a person with such a honeyed tongue. She has caught him off-guard, Byleth notes with both genuine surprise and guilt-ridden pleasure. A slight dark blush creeps across Claude’s face and ears, further deepening his dusky skin.

He pauses for a moment and stares at her. In the tender light of the moon he looks almost like a statue.

“Byleth, I –”

_“Who goes there?!”_

The pair flinch at the new voice which suddenly cuts through their trance. Hands shoot to weapons – Claude’s to Failnaught strapped across his back, Bytleth’s to the Sword of the Creator resting sheathed upon her hip.

The clanking of armor, accompanied by the clumsy thud of footfall that is barely muted by the soft earth, heralds their unexpected company. From the edge of the dead garden a small flame flutters to existence on a single candle. The dim light of the candle barely illuminates its lighter: a visibly nervous young man, wearing a guard uniform and sweating profusely. He squints needlessly into the weak darkness with a look of wild-eyed desperation, scanning the cold night for invisible monsters and non-existent assassins.

A second form shortly emerges from behind. Another guard, but this time a woman. Grey streaks decorate her hair; her face is stern and scarred and time-worn. She hisses into the dark, anger raising her voice far above an acceptable whisper. “What in the Goddess’s name are you doing, recruit?”

He stammers. “I thought – I thought I heard –”

Byleth’s hand falls from the hilt of her sword as she bites her cheek, severely disappointed by the intrusion. She and Claude had managed to keep their evening rendezvous private thus far – secret, really, though the woman would not admit to having anything to hide in that regard – but Byleth presumes that they must have been careless, that _she_ must have been careless, to have been caught so easily.

Byleth takes a deep breath in, ready to announce their presence to the terrified guard. Her announcement is a begrudging one, as she presumes all of Garreg Mach will surely be speaking of her and Claude come morning. Gossip storms through the monastery regularly, and considering the positions of power she and Claude are in… The storm will be _unending_.

Just before her mouth begins to form a word, a leather-gloved finger presses gently but firmly against her half-parted lips. Byleth stiffens, cutting her eyes to Claude.

“Shhh,” the man urges and repeats the gesture by pressing his other index finger to his own lips. Claude winks at his companion, his unendingly mischievous eyes twinkling in the starlight.

The veteran guard blows out the candle and the garden’s edge is given back to the soft shadows. “You _thought?_ You need to do a lot more than _think_ before endangering us with your idiocy, _recruit._ ”

Claude leans forward, his lips mere centimeters from Byleth’s ear. “I don’t think they’ve seen us,” he whispers. He removes his hand from her lips, but despite the fact that they no longer touch Byleth can feel the warmth radiate from his skin. Claude’s close proximity fills the otherwise flat air with the smell of _him_ : pine and musk and leather and fireplace smoke; wonderful and dizzying and far more intoxicating than any alcohol.

The pair of guards continue their back and forth. “But, Captain-”

“When we are unsure, _recruit,_ we _check_ , we do not announce our presence! I’m sure you could have been heard halfway to the Empire!”

“Captain, please, you’re starting to yell…”

A window far above the garden is suddenly awash with the flickering glow of a candle, the inhabitants of the monastery waking to the sound of an angry Guard-Captain and her hapless charge.

Claude suddenly grabs Byleth’s hand. Their eyes meet and Claude winks again, barely sparing the time to whisper “ _Run!”_ before pulling her into a sprint away from the guards.

Byleth barely hears the recruit yell “There’s the sound again!” as she’s pulled away by Claude, who leads her through the maze of crumbling stone and dead hedges. The sound of his chuckling laughter, low and quiet as to avoid further detection, rumbles in her stomach. As soon as the pair are far enough away from the guards a rare giggle, half a hushed chuff and half a snort, slips through Byleth’s lips.

They are far enough away from the guards to avoid detection, yet Claude continues his journey.

“Is that a _laugh_ I heard?” Claude teases her, neither slowing his walk nor letting loose her hand. “A giggle from our oh-so-stoic Teach is a rare thing,” he continues, “which means _I_ must be the luckiest man in Fódlan.”

Though he cannot see her face Byleth rolls her eyes at his blatant flattery. Still, she nevertheless enjoys the sentiment.

“I think we are safe now,” she whispers. “The guards won’t be able to hear us from here.” Byleth risks a glance at the dark buildings behind her, the passing worry of running into something quelled by the supportive grasp she and Claude keep on each other’s hands.

“I know,” Claude responds in a similarly hushed tone, tilting his head just enough for Byleth to catch a glimpse of his smirk. “I have an idea.”

“Claude,” Byleth warns. When Claude last uttered those words to her the evening had ended with a small kitchen fire, the acquisition of a cartful of fake jewelry, and three Alliance soldiers unintentionally revealing themselves as Empire spies.

Anna had been furious after that. She had lost merchandise and trading partners, apparently, though Byleth could not help but wonder how she had acquired them in the first place given there seemed, to the blue-haired woman at least, to be very little place in war for such trivial things as pretty bobbles and trinkets. Still, Claude had easily soothed over the issue with promises of some kind of Alliance trading deal or something similar that Byleth neither fully understood nor particularly cared about.

While Claude and his plans may be brilliant – he has to be brilliant, she thinks, as she certainly did not teach him such topics as trading etiquette – Byleth is tired. She will do whatever is needed of her, of course, though she hopes for a more quiet time in his company, void of politicking and plans for warfare… though she will not admit such aloud.

“Don’t worry, Teach. It’ll be fun! I just want to show you something.”

Claude’s grip on her hand tightens as he begins a brisk jog through the monastery. For a few seconds, Byleth struggles to understand Claude’s goal. Yet as the two approach the cathedral – itself appearing as if a foreboding goliath in the dusk – Byleth begins to understand.

He is taking her to the Goddess Tower.

The inside of the tower has always seemed rather sad to Byleth, the lower floors all covered in ivy and blanketed in a heavy darkness due the building’s lack of first-story windows. Claude does not seem interested in the macabre floors, however, and instead leads her slowly up a winding stone staircase.

“Do you remember the first time we were here? At the night of the grand ball?”

Byleth nods, though the motion is worthless in the dark. “I do.” The memory of the evening of the ball has grown into a precious one with the passing of time. Claude, still boisterous and boyish, had dragged her onto the ballroom floor. Though skilled in many other regards, her then-student had apparently never been trained in the fine art of ballroom dance (Lorenz had been very clear on courtly dance being just that: an art). For all her skill in battle and tactics Byleth yet knew nothing of the rules of the ballroom, and Claude had reveled in the careful chaos he was able to create through sweeping, erratic dance movements and the occasional foot upon another dancer’s toes. “That was the first time I had ever danced.”

“Really? You’d never danced before that?”

“Not that I can remember.” She can remember precious little of her childhood, so she muses that perhaps the statement means little.

“Well, I’m glad I was your first,” he begins, before making a soft and nervous choking noise and clearing his throat. “Your first dance partner, I mean,” he recovers.

“That said, I remember you seeming as unfamiliar with the waltzes and dances as I was.”

“Hey, I’ll have you know I am a _wonderful_ dancer. Just… not with the kind of dances from Fódlan.”

“ _Uh-huh,”_ she teases. “Of course.”

“I mean it! Fódlan isn’t the only place with their own courtly dances, you know,” he returns, but does not elaborate on the comment.

The two reach the top of the tower in short time.

“Ta-da,” Claude coos. He sweeps his free hand forward in an long arch, framing the scene before them.

A stark contrast to the morbidity of the lower floors, the balcony at the top of the tower opens to a beautiful view. The first blushing colors of dawn bloom upon the horizon, lovingly caressing the far-off forests and farmlands with swaths of pastel pinks and blues and purples. Somewhere unseen, the morning birds begin the dawn chorus and welcome the newly born day with joyous song. The air is fresher here, free of the smells of disturbed dirt and sweat so common amongst the army. Even the moon seems to flush a shy greeting to the tender dawn.

“The view is lovely,” Byleth notes.

“Worth the wait, right?”

She nods.

“See,” Claude begins, squeezing her hand gently, “you don’t have to worry _every_ time I have a scheme.”

Byleth is only vaguely aware that she squeezes his hand back. She wonders briefly if they would still be holding on to each other were they not alone, but decides to push the thought aside and simply enjoy the moment.

The woman responds to his statement with a raised eyebrow and a look she hopes conveys the feeling of “ _you say that, but we both know that is not true.”_

Byleth has been told she has become more expressive in the time since merging with Sothis, though reading her face still seems to give people trouble. Yet somehow Claude can always tell how she feels, a testament to either his keen perception or to the deepness of their friendship.

 _Friendship._ Is that what this is, Byleth wonders: simply friendship? Love amongst friends can be as deep and as true, as valuable and as enriching, as any other form of love, yet this feels markedly different from the types of affection she has felt before.

Perhaps, a new type of love? New for her, at least.

A strange feeling indeed, to have her love of a dearest friend morph into this new and strange form of bubbling affection.

Claude responds to her pointed look by bringing his free hand over his chest and half-recoiling, though his grip on her stays strong. “You wound me, Teach!”

“ _Someone_ needs to worry for you.”

“Ever the pragmatist,” he chuckles. “You should take a break from all that worry, sometimes. That can’t be good for your health.”

Byleth opens her mouth to remind him that she likely does not suffer the same threats to her bodily well-being as most do given the supposedly divinely-appointed circumstance she finds herself in (never mind the fact that her heart does not seem to beat as others do) but she decides against this.

“Come on,” he tugs on her hand, leading her to the railing of the balcony.

The air warms slightly as the sky, now the dewy color of fresh pink roses, brightens. The first rays of golden sunshine stretch across the lightening heavens. A few moments of comfortable silence pass as the two soak in the view. A smile ghosts Byleth’s lips. For the first time in recent memory, she feels content.

“Thank you.”

Claude turns his head towards her, blinking in slight confusion. “For?”

“For this,” she tells him. “ _For you,_ ” she thinks.

He shrugs off the comment. “I should be the one thanking you, after all you’ve done for us.”

The sentiment sits poorly with her, for reasons she does not entirely understand. “I have done no more than any other person in my situation would.”

Claude scoffs. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

Byleth glances at him briefly.

“So,” the man continues, “by that logic, anyone else in your position would have _also_ wielded the Sword of the Creator and started a holy war?”

“Perhaps.”

“And they would have been blessed by a Goddess and single-handedly trained a group of rag-tag misfits into a squadron of elite military fighters?”

Byleth does not respond.

Claude chuckles, deep and warm and lovely. His smile is brighter than even the virgin sun. “Sometimes I don’t think you fully realize how amazing you are, Teach.”

“You are flattering me.”

“I mean what I say. You’re exceptional; truly one of a kind.”

Byleth’s belly warms and she finds herself suddenly unable to look his way. She parts her lips, closes them, then parts them again. “So are you.”

“Now who’s the flatterer?”

Byleth smiles bashfully and nudges him playfully on the shoulder.

In the coming quiet the two turn to appreciating the view, and each other’s company, for a few beautiful minutes. Eventually, Claude speaks once more.

“I asked before you if you remembered the first time we were here together. Do you… remember what we talked about? Back during the ball, I mean.”

Byleth thinks. The memory is recent enough, and thus comes easily. “Ambition, I believe?”

“Right. Well, back then you said you didn’t have any ambitions. I was wondering if that had changed.”

“I suppose so. I desire for the war to be over.”

“Anything else?”

“I work for the day when your dream for Fódlan may become reality.”

“That’s _my_ ambition,” Claude reminds, not unkindly. “What is it that _you_ want?”

Byleth pauses. “Are you referring again to what I will do if the war ends?”

“ _When_ the war ends.”

“As I said before: I will be where you would have me.”

“But is that what _you_ want?”

Byleth’s irritation grows; her eyebrows knitting together. “What is this truly about, Claude?”

“Saw right through me, did you? I shouldn’t be surprised. I just,” Claude begins, then interrupts his own words with a deep sigh. “I worry about you.”

“Says the man who claims _I_ worry too much,” Byleth mumbles, though Claude continues talking with little pause.

“It’s just… Everyone else has started making plans. Leonie has her mercenary work; Ignatz is warming up to the idea of selling his art. We all know Lorenz is going into politics, one way or another. But, you? I haven’t heard about any plans from you.”

Byleth parts her lips, but says nothing. Much of her personal history has been dictated largely by circumstance, and while she has actively participated within her life such participation has been relegated to reacting. A mercenary, a professor, a strategist: all her decisions ultimately, but none of them roles she picked for herself.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay?” A pause. “For me, Byleth. Promise this for me.”

A fiendish trick, attaching her first name to such a request. He understands her well enough to know she won’t deny him.

“I will think on it.”

“Thank you, my friend.”

Another pause. Claude runs his free hand through his hair, his gaze turning back towards the direction of the horizon. The sun fully breaks against the far-away sky in a dazzling display of sparkling color. The sight is breathtaking, filled with glittering golds and bright blues.

From somewhere further south comes the cries and metallic clanking of an army awakening to morning training. The noises break their quiet reverie. 

“We should be getting back,” Claude sighs.

Byleth nods absently. The sun has barely blessed the sky and she already has much to do: a meeting with the war council, and then, supply lines to negotiate, and then, warriors to train, and then, and then, and then…

Claude takes a step back, but Byleth’s grip tightens around his. “My friend?” His voice drips with concern. Apparently uninterested in the natural beauty that surrounds them, he stares fully and completely at her. His eyes are filled with bittersweet affection, and Byleth dearly hopes such tenderness springs from his own heart and is not simply an illusion of the light or a reflection of her own desire. “Is everything alright?”

Byleth moves to speak but words elude her. This is unsurprising, as while she talks with greater frequency now she has never considered herself to have a way with speech. She suddenly wishes herself an orator instead of a warrior.

There is much she wishes to say, but little she knows she can or should. War is neither the time nor place for such affections as this, and she doubts too much to speak her truth. She doubts that he may feel the same, doubts that his proclivity for physical affection which sprouts when they are alone is much more than a friend finding solace within another friend’s company.

Doubt is worthless to her, but she yet struggles. Her words are even more worthless, still. They too often come out wrong or tilted or fat with the incorrect implications. _Actions_ have always been easier to her. They hold meaning in ways undisturbed by the unhelpful filter of her lips.

Yet, in this moment, she feels as if words are all she has. And so, she speaks.

“I know what I want to do after the war.”

Claude raises an eyebrow. “That was quick.”

“I want you to teach me how to dance.”

He laughs, empty and short. “I’m sure Lorenz would be happy to help you with that right now.”

“No,” Byleth responds quickly, unable to keep thin desperation from slipping into her voice. “It has to be you. I want you to teach me how _you_ dance.”

Claude stares for a moment before a look of realization spreads across his face. He smiles at her, lovely and loving. “I think I can manage that.”

“Promise me, Claude.”

He laughs again, but this time the laugh is full and sweet and true. The bells of the cathedral begin to ring in the morning.

Claude steps a foot back and, in an obvious imitation of a nobleman’s bow, dips his head towards her hand. “I promise, my lady, that I will teach you the honorable art of dance,” he sing-songs in a voice parodying nobility. Claude then presses a chaste kiss upon her knuckles. His lips are chapped but warm and _wonderful_ and Byleth feels for a moment like she is about to melt where she stands.

If she was the religious type, she would be praising the Goddess that she had decided not to wear gloves today.

“Good,” Byleth manages to sputter. “Good.”

“Now, let’s go,” he smiles. “We’ll never hear the end of it if we’re the last ones at the war table.”

So the two leave their tower and, side-by-side under the warm and fluttering morning light, walk the long route to the cardinal’s room. Byleth and Claude talk mostly of things inconsequential to the war: of teas, of wyverns, of schemes long past. The ground they walk is carpeted with baby flowers that did not exist the night before, each a green and short and yet-bloomed bud that soaks in the morning warmth and stretches triumphantly from cracks in the path’s masonry.

A monastery healing, Byleth likes to think. A promise for a future to come.

It isn’t until the two have long since entered the war room (and are well into hearing a rambling and frustrated report from an exasperated veteran guard on a specific and easily-frightenable recruit) that Byleth notices how Hilda smirks at them, her expression filled with mischievous self-satisfaction.

Byleth returns the look with a raised eyebrow, to which Hilda’s eyes flicker down and back up. Byleth follows her gaze and her face is set alight, both in pleasure and in embarrassment at having not noticed sooner.

Claude has never let go of her hand.


End file.
